The Nightingale Gallery Page 5

  Athelstan looked sideways at Cranston. The coroner’s heavy-lidded eyes were closing. Athelstan kicked him fiercely under the table.

  ‘Ah, yes, of course.’ Cranston pulled himself up, burping gently like a child. ‘Father Crispin, you were saying?’

  ‘At Prime - yes, about then - the bells of St Mary Le Bow were ringing. It was a fair morning, and Sir Thomas had asked to be roused early. I went up to his chamber and knocked. There was no reply. So I went for Sir Richard. He also tried to waken Sir Thomas.’ The young priest’s voice trailed off.

  ‘Then what?’

  ‘The door was forced,’ Sir Richard replied. ‘My brother was sprawled on the bed. We thought at first he had had some seizure and sent for the family physician, Peter de Troyes. He examined my brother and saw his mouth was stained, the lips black. So he sniffed the cup and pronounced it drugged, possibly with a mixture of belladonna and red arsenic. Enough to kill the entire household!’

  ‘Who put the cup there?’ Athelstan asked, nudging Cranston awake.

  ‘My husband liked a goblet of the best Bordeaux in his chamber at night before retiring. Brampton always took it up to him.’

  ‘Ah, yes, Brampton brought a cup of claret!’ Cranston smacked his lips. ‘He must have been a fine servant, a good fellow!’

  ‘Sir John,’ Lady Isabella shrieked in fury, ‘he poisoned my husband!’

  ‘What makes you say that?’

  ‘He took the cup up.’

  ‘How do you know?’

  ‘He always did!’

  ‘So why did Brampton hang himself?’

  ‘Out of remorse, I suppose. God and his saints,’ she cried, ‘how do I know?’

  ‘Sir John . . .’ Father Crispin raised his hand in a placatory gesture at Sir Richard’s intended outburst in her defence. The merchant looked choleric, so red-faced Athelstan thought he might have a seizure. ‘Lady Isabella is distraug§ht,’ continued the priest. ‘Brampton took the cup up, we are sure of that.’

  ‘Was he present at the banquet last night?’ Athelstan asked.

  ‘No.’ Sir Richard shook his head. ‘He and my brother had a fierce quarrel earlier in the day.’

  ‘About what?’

  Sir Richard looked nervously down the table at Vechey and Allingham.

  ‘Sir Thomas was furious: he accused Brampton of searching amongst his documents and memoranda. There are caskets in my brother’s room. He found the lid of one forced and, beside it, a silver button from Brampton’s jerkin. Brampton, of course, denied the charge and the quarrel continued most of the day.’

  ‘So Brampton sulked in his room, did not attend the banquet and retired for the night - but not before he had taken a goblet of wine along to his master’s chamber?’

  So it would seem.

  ‘Cranston had now gently nodded off to sleep, his head tilting sideways, his soft snores indicative of a good day’s drinking. Athelstan ignored the company’s amused glances, pushed away the writing tray and tried to assert himself. ‘I cannot understand this,’ he said. ‘Brampton argues with Sir Thomas, who has accused him of rifling amongst his private papers?’

  ‘Yes,’ Sir Richard nodded, watching him guardedly.

  ‘Brampton storms out but later takes up a cup of wine. A kind gesture?’

  ‘Not if it was poisoned!’ Allingham squeaked. ‘The cup was poisoned, laced with a deadly potion.’ Athelstan felt caught, trapped in a mire. The listeners around the table were gently mocking him, dismissing Cranston as a drunk and himself as an ignorant friar.

  ‘Who was present,’ he asked, ‘when Sir Thomas’s body was found?’

  ‘I was,’ Sir Richard replied. ‘And course Father Crispin. Master Buckingham also came up.’

  ‘As did I,’ Allingham grated.

  ‘Yes, that’s correct,’ Sir Richard added.

  ‘So you sent for the physician?’

  ‘Yes, as I have said.’

  ‘And then what?’

  ‘I dressed the body,’ Father Crispin offered. ‘I washed him, did what I could, and gave Sir Thomas the last rites, anointing his hands, face and feet. You may recall, Brother, there are some theologians, Dominicans,’ the priest smiled thinly, ‘who maintain the soul does not leave the body until hours after death. I prayed God would have mercy on Sir Thomas’s soul.’

  ‘Did Sir Thomas need mercy?’

  ‘He was a good man,’ Father Crispin replied sharply. ‘He founded chantries, gave money to the poor, distributed food, looked after widows and orphans.’

  I am sure the good Lord will have mercy on him,’ Athelstan murmured. ‘Now for Brampton. You made a search for him?’

  ‘Yes,’ Sir Richard replied briskly. ‘We suspected he was involved so we searched his chamber. We found a small stoppered phial in a chest beneath some robes. A servant took it round to Peter de Troyes, who pronounced it held the same mixture found in my brother’s wine cup. We then searched for Brampton.’

  ‘I found the corpse,’ Vechey interrupted. ‘I noticed that the door leading to the garret was half open, so I went up.’ He swallowed. ‘Brampton was hanging there.’ The fellow shivered. ‘It was dreadful. The garret was empty and cold. There was a horrible smell. Brampton’s body was hanging there like a broken doll, a child’s toy, his neck askew, his face blackened, tongue lolling out!’

  He gulped at his wine.

  ‘I cut him down and loosened the rope but he was dead, the corpse clammy and cold.’ He looked pleadingly at Sir Richard. ‘The body’s still there. It must be removed!’

  ‘Tell me,’ Athelstan said, ‘do you all live here?’

  ‘Yes,’ Sir Richard replied. ‘Master Allingham is a bachelor. Master Vechey is a widower,’ he smiled, ‘though still with an eye for the ladies. This mansion is great, four storeys high, built in a square round a courtyard. Sir Thomas saw no reason why his business partners should not share the same house. Tenements, property, their value has increased, and with royal taxes . . .’ His voice trailed off.

  Athelstan nodded understandingly, trying to mask his frustration. There was nothing here. Nothing at all. A merchant had been killed, his assassin had hung himself. At the same time Athelstan detected something. These people were pompous, arrogant, sure of themselves. They walked the streets like cocks, confident of their wealth, their power, their friends at court or in the Exchequer.

  ‘Sir Thomas treated Brampton well?’ Athelstan asked. ‘Was he a good lord?’

  ‘A more courteous gentleman you could not hope to meet,’ Allingham answered. ‘Sir Thomas gave generously in alms to the poor of the parish of St Bartholomew’s, to the Guild, and,’ he ended contemptuously, ‘to friars like you!’

  ‘So why should he quarrel so violently with Brampton? Had he done it before?’

  Allingham stopped, wrong-footed

  ‘No,’ he murmured. ‘No, he had not. There were just disagreements.’

  ‘Lady Isabella,’ Athelstan asked, ‘your husband - was he anxious or concerned about anything?’

  Sir Richard patted Lady Isabella’s wrist as a sign that he would answer for her.

  ‘He was worried about the war, and the increase of piracy in the Narrow Seas. He lost two ships recently to Hanse pirates. He resented the old king’s growing demands for loans.’

  ‘And Brampton, was he a good steward?’

  ‘Yes,’ Lady Isabella answered quickly, ‘he was.’

  ‘What kind of man?’

  She made a grimace. ‘Quiet, gentle, a loyal servant.’ Her eyes softened. ‘I saw him just after the quarrel with my husband. I have never seen Brampton in such a state, fretting and anxious, so angry he could hardly sit still.’

  ‘Your husband, did he mention the quarrel?’

  ‘He said he would investigate the matter later. He was surprised more than angry that Brampton could do such a thing. He said it was out of character.’ She paused. ‘At the banquet my husband broached a cask of his best Bordeaux. I sent up a cup as a peace offering to Brampton.’


  ‘You are sure Sir Thomas thought highly of Brampton?’

  ‘Oh, I am certain.’ Lady Isabella shook her head and stared down at the table.

  ‘Shall we move on to other matters? The banquet last night.’

  Cranston farted gently. The sound, however, rang through the hall like a loud bell and Lady Isabella looked away in disgust. Sir Richard glared at the coroner whilst Athelstan blushed with embarrassment at the sniggering and laughter from Buckingham.

  ‘Why was the banquet held last night?’

  ‘The young king’s coronation,’ Sir Richard replied. ‘Each guild must prepare its pageant. We were discussing the plans the Guild of Goldsmiths had for their spectacle.’

  ‘So why was Chief Justice Fortescue present?’

  ‘We do not know,’ Allingham squeaked. ‘Sir Thomas said that the Chief Justice would be coming. He often did business with him.’ He smirked. ‘Fortescue owed him money, like many judges and lords in the city.’

  ‘Why all these questions?’ Sir Richard asked softly. ‘Surely the matter is clear. Even a child,’ glancing contemptuously at Sir John, ‘can see that! My brother was murdered, his assassin was Brampton. Why must we go over these matters, muddying waters, causing pain and grief? We are busy men, Brother Athelstan. Your friend may sleep but we have business to attend to. My brother’s corpse lies cold upstairs. There is a funeral to arrange, matters to put straight, business colleagues to contact.’

  ‘Strange!’ Cranston stirred and opened his eyes. ‘I find it very strange!’

  Athelstan looked down the table and grinned to himself. One of the things he could never understand but most enjoyed about Cranston was how the big, fat coroner could doze and yet be aware of conversations going on around him.

  ‘What is strange?’ Lady Isabella snapped, her distaste for the coroner now openly apparent.

  ‘Well, My Lady,’ Cranston licked his lips, ‘your husband has a servant, Brampton. Brampton is faithful and obedient, like the good steward in the gospel. Why should he wish to search amongst your husband’s papers? What did your husband have to hide?’

  Lady Isabella just glared back.

  ‘Let us say he did,’ Cranston continued, breathing in heavily. ‘Just let us say he did and there was a quarrel -surely no cause for murder or suicide? You have said, Madam, how Brampton was a quiet, placid fellow. Not a man of hot humours or rash disposition who would commit such a dreadful act and then compound it by taking his own life.’

  ‘How else did it happen?’ Sir Richard asked stiffly.

  ‘Well,’ Cranston said, ‘is it possible that Brampton took the wine cup as a peace offering to his master?’ He ignored the sneer on Vechey’s face. ‘Placed it on the table and then left?’

  ‘And?’ Lady Isabella asked.

  ‘Someone else went up those stairs during the banquet and put poison into the cup. Or,’ Cranston rubbed his fat hands together, now warming to his subject, ‘how do we know that Sir Thomas did not have a visitor after he retired? Someone who went up the stairs and along the gallery, slipped into Sir Thomas’s room, perhaps engaging him in conversation and, while doing so, secretly poured the poison into the cup.’ He held up a hand to still the murmur. ‘I am just theorising, as the theologians say, speculating on the nature of things.’

  ‘Then, Sir, you are a fool!’

  Cranston, Athelstan and the whole company turned round in astonishment and looked down the hall. In the doorway stood an old lady dressed completely in black like a nun. Her head was covered by a thick, lawn veil arranged in the old-fashioned wimple which framed her sour lemon face in its black lace. She walked forward, her silver-topped stick beating loudly on the hall floor.

  ‘You are a fool!’

  Cranston rose.

  ‘Perhaps I am, Madam, but who are you?’

  Sir Richard darted forward.

  ‘Lady Ermengilde, may I present Sir John Cranston, coroner of the city.’

  The old lady glared at the coroner with eyes like two dark pools.

  ‘I have heard of you, Cranston, your drinking and your lechery! What are you doing in my son’s house?’

  ‘Sir John is here at the request of Chief Justice Fortescue.’ Sir Richard’s voice was soft, almost pleading.

  ‘Another rogue!’ the lady snapped.

  ‘I asked, Madam, to whom do I have the pleasure of speaking?’ Sir John repeated.

  ‘My name is Lady Ermengilde Springall. I am the mother of Sir Richard,’ she stroked Springall’s arm. ‘My other son now lies dead upstairs and I come down to hear you chatter on about nonsense. Brampton may have been a good steward. He was also a varlet, a commoner! He had ideas above his station. Thomas rebuked him, and like many of his kind Brampton could not take it. His heart was filled with malice. Satan whispered in his ear, and he carried out his dreadful deed.’ The old woman crashed her stick to the floor and held it between her two hands, resting on it. ‘At least Brampton did us all the courtesy of hanging himself and so sparing the public expense and the work of the hangman at the Elms!’

  Athelstan watched Cranston. The coroner was now in one of his most dangerous moods. He smiled but only round the lips. His eyes were hard and fixed, watching the old lady as a swordsman might an opponent waiting for the next parry.

  ‘Lady Ermengilde, you seem well appraised of what happened. I crave your indulgence. Can you explain more?’

  ‘My chamber is close to that of my son,’ she snapped. ‘The staircase beyond,’ she indicated with a nod of her head, ‘leads up to two galleries, one running to the right. At the end was Sir Thomas’s chamber and, next to his, mine.’

  ‘Any other?’

  Lady Ermengilde’s eyes slid towards her daughter-in-law.

  ‘That of the Lady Isabella. There is a gallery to the left, identical to the one I’ve described except for one thing.’ She raised one bony finger. ‘My chamber, as well as those of Sir Thomas and Lady Isabella, stands on the Nightingale Gallery.’

  ‘The Nightingale Gallery?’ Athelstan asked. ‘What is that?’

  Dame Ermengilde smiled and walked nearer, her face looking more than ever like a sour apple. Athelstan noticed she was not dressed in black but in the dark brown habit of a nun, though her scorn for the luxuries of this world must have been shallow for the rings on her fingers held jewels the size of birds’ eggs. A worldly lady, Athelstan thought, for all her prim face, sour lips and arrogant eyes.

  ‘It’s well known,’ she continued, her voice tinged with patronising arrogance. ‘This house was built on a square, and on the opposite corner of the square are stairs to the second storey.’ She waved her hand to the far doorway which stood slightly ajar. Through it Athelstan could glimpse steep stairs. ‘They will take you up to Sir Thomas’s chamber,’ she added. ‘At the top are two corridors. The gallery to the right is the Nightingale Gallery because it “sings” when anyone walks through it.’ She must have seen the disbelief in Cranston’s bleary eyes. ‘This house is very old,’ she continued, looking up at the great blackened beams. ‘It was built in the reign of King John.’ She smirked. ‘A time very like our own. A strong ruler was needed. Anyway, one of John’s mercenary captains used this house as a base from which to control London. He trusted no one, not even his own men.’ Her eyes drifted to Lady Isabella who was standing behind Athelstan. ‘Anyway, he had the floor of that gallery taken up and replaced with special boards of yew. No one can approach any of the three chambers on that gallery without making it creak, or “sing”. Hence its name.’

  ‘And the importance of this?’ Cranston asked.

  ‘The importance, my dear coroner,’ she purred in reply, ‘is that I was in my chamber all evening. I am old and banquets bore me. Oh, I heard the talk and the laughter from the hall below. It disturbed my sleep. Fortunately I need very little.’ She glared at Cranston. ‘You will find out for yourself, Sir John, age makes you sleep lightly.’

  ‘Just in case Death taps you on the shoulder!’ he answered crossly.


  ‘Quite,’ she jibed back. ‘But Death has a tendency, as you well know, Sir John, to take the heaviest first!’

  ‘My Lady,’ Athelstan intervened, ‘the events of yesterday . . . You heard no one go up to Sir Thomas’s chamber?’

  ‘Before the banquet people were scurrying backwards and forwards,’ she retorted. ‘During the meal I heard the Nightingale sing once, I was surprised. I opened the door and saw Brampton, carrying a wine cup in his hand. I heard him open the door to my son’s chamber and then go back downstairs again. I heard no other noise before Sir Thomas’s footsteps when he came up to his chamber. Sir Richard followed him and bade him goodnight, then Lady Isabella’s maid made her inquiry. After that the house was silent till this morning. Father Crispin came up, I heard him knock on the door, then he went for Sir Richard and brought him back.’

  Cranston nodded. ‘I thank you, Lady Ermengilde. You have solved one piece of the puzzle, Brampton did take the cup up. Now,’ he looked at Sir Richard, ‘disturbing and painful though it may be, I must insist that I view the bodies of both men.’ He bowed to Lady Isabella. ‘Your husband first, My Lady. You have no objection?’

  Sir Richard shook his head and led them out across the hall and up the broad sweeping staircase. As Cranston passed Lady Ermengilde, he belched rather noisily.

  At the top of the stairs the passageway, or gallery, to the left was unremarkable. The walls were white-washed and coated with fresh lime, the woodwork painted black. There were canvas paintings nailed there in between the three chambers which were now covered in black gauze veils; the doors of each chamber were huge, heavy set, and reinforced with iron strips. The gallery running to their right, however, was different. The doors and walls were similar but the floor was not made of broad planks but thin bands of light-coloured wood. As soon as Sir Richard stepped on them Athelstan realised the gallery was aptly named. Each footstep, wherever they stood, caused a deep, slightly melodious twang, similar to the noise of a dozen bowstrings being pulled back simultaneously. Immediately to their left was Lady Isabella’s room, the central chamber was Lady Ermengilde’s, and the last Sir Thomas’s, now in utter disarray. The floor outside was gouged. The door, smashed off its leather hinges, stood crookedly against the lintel. Sir Richard dismissed the servant on guard and, with the help of Buckingham, pushed it gently to one side.